Finding Molly
by Mrs.Monster
Summary: Naturally her story couldn't come with a fairy tale cover, and the man who helped her was neither a Prince, nor was he Charming, but Sherlock Holmes helped her all the same. Molly shows up at 221b on a cold, early Spring day with a mystery that Sherlock can't resist. Sherlolly Romance/Comedy/Drama.
1. Chapter 1

_**(Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended.**_

_**This is my new Sherlock/Molly multi-chapter story. Hope everyone likes it.**_

_**The lovely PetraTodd checked it over for me, and did all of the research, which I mostly discarded in the name of artistic licence.**__** Let's all shower her with rainbows of gratitude.**_ I know that what is depicted here is not proper procedure in situations such as this, but let's just roll with it, yes?

_**Thanks to lifelesslyndsey for helping me develop this idea. Seriously, this woman is my muse. The Jay to my Silent Bob.**_

_**Edit 7/7/12: Mya Scarlet has mercifully agreed to Britpick this story for me. She's done chapters 1-3, so I'm switching the old text with the fixed stuff. Nothing plot-wise has changed, just bits of terminology.)**_

**...**_**  
**_

_**Finding Molly**_

_**One**_

**...**_**  
**_

The first thing that she could remember was a cold breeze hitting her face, making her gasp a deep breath. She was standing in front of water, hands gripping a metal railing that was cold as ice under her fingers. Gravel crunched under her shoes when she moved, and she looked down as if the sound surprised her. Baggy tan trousers hung from her hips, and a loose white cardigan patterned with bright red cherries was pulled tightly around her shoulders, trying, and failing, to ward off a chill.

The water in front of her lapped at a sandy shore, where patterns like mazes were dug by the tendrils of a rising and falling tide. She looked behind her and saw a paved pathway just on the other side of the graveled patch where she was standing. Long brown hair blew in the cold breeze around her face and she pushed it back before wrapping her arms around her torso. She was trying to place her current location… and was failing.

In fact, her mind seemed strangely blank. Strangely, frustratingly blank, as if information was just out of reach. She grasped for a name, an age, a memory; she grasped for _anything _andcame up empty handed. She didn't know how long she'd been standing, staring out at the murky water, only that the cold had seeped into her body and wrapped around her bones, making her teeth chatter painfully. She thought that maybe she should move, find somewhere warm, but she didn't know where.

An enormous city skyline stretched out on the other side of the water before her, and the sun was just beginning to peek over it, turning the sky a washed-out gray.

**...**

A policeman found her sometime later; she wasn't sure how long she'd stood there, looking at the water, wondering what she should do. She'd been startled at the gentle touch to her shoulder, but the kind, aged face of the policeman had put her at ease. It seemed that even she who could remember nothing recognized the uniform and what it stood for. He delivered her to a hospital, and that was where she sat now, nearly a full twenty-four hours later. She'd been examined, and other than an unusual amount of glitter clinging to her entire body and a rather impressive lump on the back of her head, she was unscathed. _Retrograde amnesia_, apparently a side-effect of the blow to the head that she couldn't remember sustaining.

Now, they didn't know what to do with her. The police could do nothing; she couldn't remember if a crime had been committed. The hospital couldn't keep her; she wasn't physically injured, and they needed the bed she was currently sitting on. So they were discharging her. Letting her loose with no memories, and nowhere to go. She sat on the unmade hospital bed, swinging her feet that just barely missed the floor, frowning. What was she to do?

A nurse came through the open door, a sheaf of papers in her hands and a sympathetic expression on her face. The nurse handed her the papers –discharge papers- and she stood from the bed, soles of her shoes squeaking against the stark linoleum of the hospital room floor.

"You should go and see Sherlock Holmes," the nurse told her, turning back from where she'd been headed back through the door.

"Excuse me?"

"Sherlock Holmes. He's all over the papers. Some big shot private detective. Wears this funny little hat. They say he can solve _any _mystery."

"I don't know who you're talking about."

The nurse frowned and dug in the pocket of her scrubs then shoved a twenty pound note intoher hands along with the discharge papers. "Take this, go hail a cab. Tell the cabby to take you to 221b Baker Street."

Her frown deepened. "Alright. Thank you, I suppose."

The nurse just nodded and left the room.

**...**

She stood on the pavement in front of the hospital, watching cars race by. The papers and money were still clutched tightly in her left hand. Shining black cabs were weaving through traffic, and she stepped up to the curb, and stuck out her right hand. One of the cabs swooped in, and she took a startled step back before tentatively opening the rear door, and sliding inside while the cabby waited not-quite-patiently.

"Where to, then?" he asked through the clear partition.

She cleared her throat, scooting forward across her seat. "221b Baker Street, apparently."

**...**

The door that she was currently contemplating was painted black, with a silver knocker. Just above it, figures spelled out _221b_. There was a buzzer to the left of the door, and she pressed it before she could change her mind.

_Change her mind, _she thought. _That's funny. What mind? _

She didn't know how this man, _detective_, could possibly help her. What kind of information could she provide him? Over the past twenty-odd hours she'd strained and pushed within her mind, trying to remember something, _anything _that would tell her who she was, or where she belonged. Her efforts remained fruitless. She was grasping at nothing, coming to see this Sherlock Holmes. The nurse had told her that he could solve any puzzle, and she certainly hoped that that nurse had been right.

Cold wind whipped down the street and around her, and she clutched her sweater closer to her body. She heard footsteps on the other side of the door, and then it was wrenched open by a short, sandy-haired man. He was wearing jeans and a hideous knitted jumper, and was gaping openly at her.

"Oh my god," the man breathed, and she took half a step back. Something seemed weighted inside of her, and she moved back a bit more. The man stepped out, following her.

"_Molly?_"

She stopped dead. Her brow furrowed. And then finally: "Do I know you?"

The man frowned at her. "What are you talking about? Where have you _been_?"

"I don't rightly know, do I?"

"What, Molly- what are-" The man noticed her shivering and his frown deepened. "Jesus, you're freezing. Come inside."

She started a bit when he touched her elbow and steered her inside, quickly closing the door against the chilly late-autumn day.

"I'm sorry, but do I know you?" she said again.

"Molly it's me. It's John."

At her blank look, he began to grow alarmed.

"I don't know anyone named John," she said. "And I don't know anyone named Molly. Then again, that's not saying much, is it?"

John took in the rumpled clothing, the plastic hospital bracelet, and he processed their conversation since she'd rung the bell. And then it all clicked.

"Oh hell."

**...**

"_Amazing_."

"Sherlock-"

"Full-on retrograde amnesia. John, are you aware how rare-"

"I am a doctor, thank you very much. Yes, I know how-"

She sat on a brown leather sofa in a room that was almost overwhelmingly busy. Books and papers were piled everywhere; two chairs were grouped by a fireplace, bright flames dancing in the grate; a _skull _on the mantle; and two men, standing just on the other side of a coffee table (piled with even more books) staring at her intently, bickering back and forth like an old married couple.

The tall one, with the dark curly hair, bright blue eyes and angular face had actually _poked _her. With a long forefinger, right on the cheek. As if she was some type of fascinating experiment.

They kept calling her Molly, they said that they knew her, had known her for years. She'd hoped that the name would spark something, shed a little light, but there was still nothing.

**...**

She remained mostly unconvinced, until they brought in the Detective Inspector.

Detective Inspector Lestrade confirmed that she was, indeed, Doctor Molly Hooper. The doctor bit threw her off the most; a doctor of what? A question she'd save for later. They told her that she was employed at St. Bartholomew Hospital, there in London and lived in a small flat not far from where she worked. She had a cat named Toby, both of her parents were dead and she had no significant other.

"Is any of this ringing any bells?" Lestrade asked her, while the tall one –Sherlock Holmes, apparently- scoffed in the background.

She shook her head slowly. "Nothing other than an odd feeling in my stomach that may either be pity, hunger or the craving for a cigarette. Do I smoke?" she asked the room in general.

She got a unanimous "_No_," back from all three men.

Leaning back on the leather sofa, she sighed.

**...**

She was still sitting on that brown sofa, and John was in one of the chairs by the fire, reading a newspaper. Sherlock and Lestrade had gone to her flat to get a few of her things, as everyone thought it would be for the best that she not wonder about on her own with no memories. Everyone included her, but she was rightfully leery of this new situation. Living with two men that she didn't know from Adam, despite what they kept telling her.

Mrs. Hudson was a slight comfort; the presence of another woman, even a strange one, put her mind a bit at ease. The dear old thing (who wore a rather alarming amount of purple) assured her that Sherlock and John could be trusted; John was an honorable man, she'd said, and Sherlock, well, he was honorable enough.

It'd been only about two hours since she'd rang the bell downstairs, but it felt like much longer. Like she'd been sitting on this leather sofa for days. Her body was weary, her head felt heavy, and she still had that strange feeling in her stomach that seemed to want to be hunger, but was just a tad off.

Every so often she would catch John looking at her, but he would quickly look away once he'd realize that she'd noticed.

Sighing, Molly slumped forward on the sofa and flicked at the wire basket that held a few red, shiny apples. She hooked a finger around a wire and twisted the basket around and then back again. Footsteps pounded up the stairs and Molly looked that way just in time to see Sherlock's head to come into view. He was carrying a large, pink tote bag which he dropped unceremoniously in front of her, onto the coffee table.

"Clothes," he said, tugging his dark blue scarf from around his neck. "And a few other…personal items. Lestrade thought you'd appreciate them." Sherlock hung the scarf and his coat on the back of the door, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

Molly looked to John, and he just shrugged at her, turning his attention back to the paper. She tugged the tote back closer to her and unzipped it, poking around inside. She drew out a pair of tan trousers, and then raised a brow when she pulled out a sparkly sequined top that still had the tags attached. A floral skirt, an enormous faded gray t-shirt with a college logo, a knitted Christmas jumper, a pair of denim shorts. Were these the kinds of things that she normally wore? Nothing matched at all. Then again, maybe it was just Sherlock. When she got to the bottom of the bag, her face flushed scarlet red.

When they'd been telling her about herself, trying to spark some memories, she'd imagined that her taste in lingerie would run more toward plain cotton panties and dowdy matching bras. What she found at the bottom of the tote back were scraps of lace and ribbon that would barely cover an inch of skin. Clearing her throat, Molly shoved all of the clothing back in the bag. She was a little leery of seeing what type of _personal items _Sherlock and Lestrade had seen fit to pack.

Molly dropped the bag on the floor between the sofa and the table, and then levered herself up. She went to the doorway of the kitchen, and saw Sherlock poking at something in the fridge.

"Thank you for the clothes," she said, and he straightened up. "I suppose. Thank you for helping me."

Sherlock drew a jar out of the fridge, glass scraping against the metal of the rack. "Think nothing of it," he murmured.

"You say I have a flat of my own, I'm sure I'd be fine staying there. I don't want to impose." Did she? She didn't feel like the type of person who would like to barge in on someone else's home.

"Of course you're imposing," Sherlock said, an absent tone in coloring his voice. "But like I said, think nothing of it." He paused, as if hesitating. "I'm… sure you would do the same for John or I. When you're in your right… mind at least."

He turned and held the jar up to the light, examining the contents. Molly realized that it was filled with pink tongues, the flesh tinged with gray. Sherlock spun the lid, and Molly beat a quick retreat from the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

_**(Disclaimer: I own nothing related to **__**Sherlock**__**. No copyright infringement intended.**_

_**Thank you**__** for the response on the first chapter! Thanks to: Adi who is also Mou, thestarlitrose, FluffyMary, ThisLooksLIkeAJobForMe, magicstrikes, cutiepie030, anon, Mrs. Dizzy, conchepicon, coloradoandcolorado1, naughtynyx, MorbidbyDefault, Lono, Aerelon, EmilyRose7, rory'sfan04, MuteBanana, ChocolateMuffins, Stella McLaughlin, olivetrees, Guest, Calicar, Mrs. 10thDoctor, whytejigsaw and daisherz365 for reviewing chapter one!**_

_**Checked over by the talented PetraTodd. **_

_**This chapter is a bit shorter than the first, and most will range from 1 .5k-3k, depends on chapter content. This one is more of a transitional chapter- Hope you enjoy!)**_

**…**

_**Finding Molly **_

_**Two**_

**…**

The next morning, Molly woke up confused.

That blankness still spanned back in her mind, from when she came to on the bank of the Thames (as she'd been informed by the policeman who'd found her), but instead of the bitter cold and discomfort that she'd felt upon every other morning since she'd lost her memories, this one she woke cocooned in warmth.

She looked up at the ceiling, and realized with slight surprise that she was lying on the floor in between the leather sofa in Sherlock and John's living room and the coffee table, wrapped tightly in a fleece blanket.

"Are you comfortable like that?"

Molly peeked around the legs of the table and saw Sherlock sitting in his gray leather chair, curly dark hair still damp from a shower.

"Actually, yes," she answered.

He shook his head at her, and she narrowed her eyes in a slight glare which he ignored. Molly rolled and reached for one of the pillows on the sofa, cuddling it between her arms and head, settling on her side. She wore the enormous gray shirt that Sherlock had brought from her flat the day before, and it was long enough to hang past her knees. Today she was going to accompany either Sherlock or John to her home to see if being in the familiar setting brought anything back, and if a miracle in the form of her memories rushing back did not occur, then to get a few more of her things. And her cat.

Knowing her luck, well, _what _she knew of it (and from what she _did _know if it, it couldn't be very good, could it?) Sherlock would be the one to take her. She had the feeling that she wasn't going to like him much. From her limited exposure to the _consulting _detective (as he'd corrected her the day before) she found that he was rude, condescending, and considered himself smarter than everyone else. Which from all evidence he _was _but he didn't have to be such an enormous dick about it.

**…**

After falling back asleep and staying that way for a few more hours, Molly finally dragged herself from the floor and sat up between the sofa and the coffee table, looking around blearily. Sherlock was still in his chair, and now John was in the one opposite, sipping steadily from a large mug of coffee.

She yawned loudly and stretched, blanket pooling around her waist.

"Good morning."

John looked over at her where she was still sitting on the floor. "Morning." He gave her a small smile.

Sherlock ignored her completely.

**…**

There was a snake in the bathroom sink.

He kept a dead _snake _in the bathroom sink.

Molly had stepped into the room with a fresh change of clothes, and had been frozen in fear for a full minute, waiting for the thing to move, to slither from the porcelain and sink its fangs into one of her extremities. Once she'd processed the fact that it was dead, she'd attempted to brush it off. Who was she to tell a person what they could and couldn't keep in their own bathroom sink? It wasn't her sink.

Standing under the shower spray, she enjoyed a few moments under the warm water. She hadn't showered at the hospital the day before, and now she watched tiny specks of glitter swirl down the drain, washing from her skin. Reaching to the shelf built into the shower wall, Molly had to laugh. There was a bottle of some type of shampoo for men, then there was a tall bottle of baby shampoo. She could only guess which bottle belonged to which man.

After only a second's hesitation, she reached for the bottle of baby shampoo.

**…**

Of course it was Sherlock who took her to her flat. Because of _course _John was called in to the clinic where he sometimes worked.

They sat quietly in the back of a cab, each looking out their respective windows. Molly craned her neck when they passed St. Bartholomew's Hospital, eyes widening at the enormous grouping of buildings.

"What kind of a doctor am I?" she asked Sherlock.

"You're a forensic pathologist." He didn't look away from the window when he answered.

"A little more detail, please."

Sherlock sighed. "You perform autopsies to determine the cause of death in cases of sudden, violent or unexpected death and occasionally you do actual forensic scene investigations."

Molly was quiet for a beat. That's what she did? Spent her days fingers deep and wading through dead bodies? She looked down at her hands; they were pale, the skin dry and slightly cracked, likely from vigorous and frequent washings. Her fingers were quite long compared to the smallness of the rest of her.

"Am I any good? You know, at what I do?"

"Surprisingly so. We're here."

They were parked at the curb in front of an enormous row of flats. The building was brick face, and seemed to sprawl for ages in both directions from the street corner. _Carthusian Street _was posted on the sign that Molly spotted_. _

Sherlock paid the cabbie and they exited the backseat. Standing next to her on the sidewalk, he pulled a ring of keys from his coat pocket, and, not waiting for her, swept toward the painted green door that faced the corner.

Up a flight of stairs and down a narrow corridor to flat 2C, Molly scrambled behind Sherlock, trying to keep up. She barged ahead of him into the flat after he'd unlocked the door, and sniffed at the look he gave her; it _was _her flat after all.

What greeted Molly upon her entrance was an unusual array of extremely bright mismatched colors. The sofa was orange, the lamp shades were pink with silhouettes of small birds patterned on them. The lamps themselves, which sat on either end of the sofa on small tables, were painted black to match the massive coffee table that sat low in front of the sofa. Two chairs in the room were Stickley style and were paired with plump Victorian footstools. Shelves upon shelves of books climbed up the wall next to a built-in nook which housed a small television. Two large windows took up most of the wall to the right of the sofa, and the mid-afternoon sun gleamed off of rug-less white-tile floors.

Upon first glance, the combination made Molly want to claw her eyes out. After a few moments, and when she cocked her head slightly to the right, it all seemed to pull together. From another room a fat orange and white striped cat raced toward Molly, and began meowing and rubbing up against her legs. Like it was second nature, and for all she knew, it was, Molly stooped and picked up the cat, cuddling it to her chest. Toby the cat mewled appreciatively and cuddled into his owners arms.

Molly stood there, in the middle of the sitting room, clutching the cat, with Sherlock hovering behind her, waiting.

"Retrograde amnesia doesn't work that way. Your memories won't come back all at once, if they come back at all."

"Yes, thank you for that, Susie Sunshine."

She could practically _feel _his glare.

**...**

Through the sitting room, Molly moved into her bedroom and found dresser drawers hanging open, the closet door ajar, and clothing strewn _everywhere. _She turned to Sherlock, giving him a questioning look.

"It was like this when Lestrade and I arrived yesterday."

"Was I robbed, or am I just a slob?"

Sherlock just shrugged in her general direction, apparently completely uninterested.

Molly backed out of the room, and went to the kitchen. Stuck to the fridge she found a photo of herself looking significantly younger, standing between an older couple. She assumed these people were her parents, now dead, but she didn't know for sure. Toby the cat squirmed in her arms and she set him down, watching him trot from the room.

Back in the sitting room, she found Sherlock sitting on the orange sofa, and slumped down next to him, sighing.

"I hate this."

"I can imagine."

Molly rolled her head to the side and glared at Sherlock a little. "Did I ever like you? John said we were friends, but… Yeah, I can't see it."

Looking at her in his peripherals, Sherlock said, "I think it's safe to say that you… liked me."

"Huh."

After poking through the contents of her drawers, Molly packed a bag with more appropriate clothing. She also found a drawer full of considerably more modest bras and knickers, and she wanted to ask Sherlock who _exactly _packed her other bag, but she thought that she'd save it for later. A question like that could come in handy. They gathered up supplies for Toby the cat, and packed the cat in question into a carrier, then locked up, trooping out of the building to catch another cab back to Baker Street.

* * *

_**(Carthusian Street was something I stumbled across while doing research for Molly's flat. I've never been to London, and I've no clue what Carthusian Street actually looks like. Again with the artistic license.) **_


	3. Chapter 3

_**(Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended. **_

_**Thanks to magicstrikes, ThisLooksLikeAJobForMe, Adi Who is Also Mou, Mrs. 10thDoctor, BlackButterflyPrincess, olivetrees, Calicar, rory'sfan04, Mrs. Dizzy, Lono, Seriafina and all of the Anon's (I think it's this new review format) for reviewing chapter two! **_

_**My posting schedule will be about a chapter a week, but since I'm posting this one as I write it, updates may sometimes be a little faster or slower than that. But my goal is to not go more than a week without a new chapter. Hope all of my American readers had a nice Independence Day.)**_

**…**

_**Finding Molly **_

_**Three**_

**…**

It was the following day, and Molly was sitting in Sherlock's chair. Flames crackled merrily in the grate of the fireplace to her right, and Toby was curled up by her feet. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, curled in on himself, his back to the room. Apparently she was being difficult with what little information she could give him regarding her _case_. They'd discovered that she'd left the hospital after her shift was over at five p.m., as per usual, and that she'd gone straight home. After having a lonely dinner at her flat, she'd left again, freshly showered and changed, destination unknown. That was where they hit a roadblock.

Sherlock had put the word out to a few of his _contacts _(being, she was sure, deliberately vague about the whole thing.)_, _asking if anyone had seen Molly late Friday night or early Saturday morning, before she came to on the bank of the Thames. But in the meantime, Sherlock had to _wait _and Molly was learning that that was not something that Sherlock Holmes did well.

The man on the sofa sighed loudly; both Molly and John glanced over at him before John blew out a breath of his own, and Molly swung her legs over the arm of the chair, feet toward the fireplace. She leaned back over the opposite arm, long brown hair slipping down to brush against the carpet.

She was thinking that Sherlock actually had a rather nice arse when she was looking at it upside down, and made a mental note to double check again when she was right side up, when John spoke.

"You're different," John said to her.

Sherlock shifted on the sofa, and Molly turned her head toward the other chair before answering.

"Yes, obviously."

**…**

Molly was sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by odd looking glass tubes and beakers, watching John try to cook. She was fairly certain that he was doing it wrong, but she remained silent on the subject.

The television blared in the living room, some crap program Sherlock was watching, his lanky body folded into the chair he'd kicked her out of.

The smell of something burning filled the air in the kitchen, and Molly picked up a beaker filled with some sort of purple liquid just as John began cursing colorfully. She sniffed at the beaker a little, but couldn't make out any distinct odor coming from it, so she set it back down.

John removed the frying pan from the burner, only to drop it again with a loud clang as the phone began to ring. Meat and fat flew everywhere, and John began to curse again, using words that would make a sailor blush, and some Molly was certain she'd never heard before.

The phone was screeching, Sherlock was ignoring it and John was cursing even _louder _as he moved from the kitchen to the sitting room, wiping hot fat from his hands with a towel.

Molly stood from the table just as she heard John growl an aggravated "_hello?_" into the phone. She took the pan over to the plastic rubbish bin that sat in the corner of the room and scraped the burnt meat into the bin before returning it to the hob. In the fridge, next to the left hand of a man that was wrapped loosely in clingfilm, was a fresh package of mince.

It sizzled when she dropped it into the still hot pan, and Molly picked up the wooden spoon John had been using, and broke the meat up into small pieces.

She could hear him talking on the telephone in the other room, and Sherlock had turned the television off, so it must have been something important. Molly found an onion in a drawer of the fridge that was free of _experiments _and was dicing half of it when John came back to the kitchen.

"That was Lestrade…" he trailed off as he noticed what she was doing, but let it pass without comment. "Someone just tried to use your bank card at a cash machine in Brixton."

"So what do we do?" Molly asked as she tossed the onions into the pan with the meat.

"_You _stay here. Sherlock and I are going to go and track down whoever used your card. Lestrade said that he would have a couple of officers meet us, but _someone _doesn't want to wait around." John rolled his eyes.

"Alright. Are you sure I can't-" John was already leaving the kitchen, and Molly could hear footsteps pounding down the stairs. "-come along?" The downstairs door slammed shut as John followed Sherlock out into the fading London day.

**…**

Much to her surprise, Molly discovered that she was quite a good cook. She also discovered that attempting to navigate John and Sherlock's kitchen was a tricky and dangerous thing; surprises lurked around every corner.

She found a box of dried lasagne with a thin layer of dust coating the cardboard in the back of a cabinet, and had to scrub what she was fairly certain was blood, congealed and thick, out of a pan before she could use it.

She sniffed at a package of cheese in the fridge, and nearly gagged, but Mrs. Hudson came to the rescue on that one with nearly a full package of cheddar and a grater.

By the time Sherlock and John returned, several hours after they'd run out the door, there was a heavy tray of lasagne cooling on the freshly cleaned worktop next to the cooker.

Molly was sitting at the kitchen table, fingers of one hand tapping impatiently on the table, twirling a glass test tube between the others.

"Be careful with that," Sherlock said, hanging his coat on the back of the door. "I'm not sure what it will do to your skin."

"What did you find out? Did you find who tried to use my card?" Molly asked, peering at the sluggish green liquid that filled the tube.

"Yeah. We found this, too." John came into the kitchen, dangling a puke green tote bag in front of him. "It's yours, all of your ID is in there."

Molly took it from him, wrapping her hand around the corduroy strap. The smell of strong perfume hung around the bag in a nearly visible cloud, and it was even thicker when she opened it.

"The guy said that he found it in the back of a cab, that it was lying on the floor."

A hard cover wallet held a driving license, two bank cards, a credit card, a library card, twenty-four quid, and a newspaper clipping. She plucked up the much-folded and worn around the edges clipping and flattened it on the table.

It was a picture of Sherlock wearing a stupid little hat.

"Um, John?"

Looking back at her from where he'd been sniffing around dinner, John said, "Yeah?"

"Why do I have a newspaper picture of Sherlock in my wallet?"

"Oh! Erm." John turned, leaning against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, I suppose that you kind of… fancy Sherlock?

Molly's face scrunched up, and she darted a glance toward the sitting room where the man in question had ensconced himself in his chair again. "Really?"

John nodded.

"And so I cut a picture of him out of the newspaper?"

John only shrugged, and turned back to the food on the counter. After another look toward the sitting room, Molly turned back to the contents of her bag. A hairbrush, a paperback romance novel, a hospital ID badge from St. Bart's, a flyer for a band with a name she didn't recognize that was putting on a show, a small sewing kit, and at the very bottom was a stack of five pound notes held together with a thick rubber band.

"Interesting," Sherlock said, making Molly jump. He was leaning over Molly's shoulder, having moved between rooms silently, peering at the stack of cash in the depths of the bag.

Sherlock snatched the bag from her hands, and swept his arm across the table top, knocking a few sets of thankfully empty test tubes in wooden racks to the floor. Completely ignoring John's sound of protest about the mess, Sherlock upended Molly's bag, spilling the contents over the scarred wooden surface.

Grasping the back of the chair she was sitting in, Sherlock dragged Molly out of the way and crouched directly in front of her, poking through the jumbled heap with a long, pale forefinger. She flushed when he flicked passed tampons and a pair of lace knickers that had been stored inside the back, but it didn't seem to faze Sherlock a bit.

He sniffed the bundle of money, then flicked his fingers of the ends of the notes. Rubbing them together, he murmured, "_Interesting_. The same glitter here, as on her clothes and body… traces of the faint scent clinging to her hair, too." Setting the money aside, he rifled through the rest of the contents, and Molly sat watching him, her knees pressed against his back where he was squeezed between her and the table.

Molly glanced over her shoulder to John who was forking lasagne into his mouth at an impressive pace, but he just lifted his shoulder in another shrug.

"_Hasn't happened yet._" Sherlock discarded the flyer for the band by tossing it over his shoulder, and it drifted down to land on Molly's left leg.

Suddenly shooting to his feet, Sherlock snatched the rubber-banded money off the table and stalked back to the sitting room where Molly could hear him throw himself back into his chair.

As she was picking up the contents of her back, Molly asked John, "Are you _sure _I fancied him?"

"It baffled everyone else too," he answered after swallowing.


	4. Chapter 4

_**(Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended, and I make no money from the writing or posting of this story.**_

_**Thanks to Buckwild12, coloradoandcolorado1, magicstrikes, Mya Scarlet, FluffyMary, whytejigsaw, Petra Todd, guest, Calicar, Mrs Dizzy, MuteBanana, rory'sfan04, Adi Who is Also Mou, ktmt1120, naughtynyx, olivetrees (for both your reviews), lililoop, patemalah21 for reviewing chapter three!**_

_**Petra Todd checked it over, made sure it wasn't gibberish. **_

_**The first three chapters of this story have been "Britpicked" by Mya Scarlet. I didn't think that this one needed it, but if I've missed something huge let me know and I'll send it out to be fixed.) **_

**…**

_**Finding Molly**_

_**Four**_

**…**

Sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, Molly stared at the papers spread out in front of her. The grate was empty at her back, and she was wrapped in one of the sweaters she'd gotten from her flat a few days before.

In her wallet there had been _two _bank cards. When she'd gone to her branch, accompanied by John, they explained that she had a primary checking account, and another for savings.

As it turned out, she'd been a good little squirrel. Putting away lots of nuts for winter. From the folder she'd left the bank with, she'd discovered that after paying off the loans from university, Molly had put, after livelihood and household expenses, about a quarter of her yearly income into the savings account. After just a little over three years, this amounted to around fifteen-thousand pounds, give or take a few hundred.

The balance in her primary checking was modest, _extremely _modest, and Molly wondered what had been the motivation behind this. Why had she lived so sparsely? Another question that would go unanswered until –_if_- she regained her memories.

According to her statements, she paid the rent on her flat in quarterly chunks. This quarter had been paid just two months ago, so that was something that she didn't have to worry about for the time being.

It also meant that she could pull her own weight while she was living at 221b, without feeling like a drain on John and Sherlock. That hadn't been sitting well with her, sitting around their flat, eating their food, her cat shedding orange hair all over the place.

Sherlock's contacts (or as John had informed her, his _Homeless Network_.) had served up nothing so far; no one had spotted an elfish girl, spattered with glitter, wondering around dazed and confused. When the stack of money from her purse hadn't delivered any information to Sherlock via osmosis, he'd pawed through the contents of her purse again and had come up empty handed.

It was disheartening. To both her and Sherlock; she wanted her memories back, and he wanted to solve her mystery. In her honest opinion, Molly didn't think that he was putting a whole lot of effort behind the endeavor. Instead of hitting the pavement, asking around, he normally spent his days with her at the flat. She'd catch him watching her intently, as if something in her very manner would crack the entire mystery wide open.

But what did she know? She wasn't the World's Only Consulting Detective.

**…**

They'd cleared out a dresser for her in Sherlock's bedroom. Molly supposed that the only reason that Sherlock had relented was because he was tired of tripping over her bags where they were shoved into a corner of the sitting room. She hadn't brought an awful lot with her, just the basic necessities really. Trousers, jumpers, a few sets of _modest _undergarments, pajama's and a bright orange bag from her bathroom that held a hairbrush, hair ties and other assorted paraphernalia.

It still felt odd, moving in with these two men. Something inside of her seemed to rebel against it, and she thought that she could probably survive living in her own flat.

Then there was something wholly depressing thinking about just sitting in her flat, only Toby for company, with no memories, no job to go to. Basically with absolutely nothing. She would sit, and she would molder away.

Molly shook her head, discarding those maudlin thoughts, and pushed the drawer closed on the last of her things. In the bathroom, she set the orange bag on the top of a set of shelves next to the sink that was thankfully now snake free.

Unzipping the bag, she pulled out her hair brush and took her hair down from its high ponytail. Molly ran the bristles through her nearly waist-length hair. She could see the day dimming through the small bathroom window, and flicked on the light with her free hand.

The overhead light glinted off of something tangled within the depths of her orange bag, and she paused in her brushing to dig out a sparkling hoop earring. Molly dropped the brush and it landed in the sink with a clatter as she ran her fingers over the cool metal of the hoop. In her belly, something seemed to gnaw as she stood looking at the earring; there was a swooping sensation, and something like heavy disappointment. Her eyes narrowed, and she bit down on her lower lip, bringing the hoop closer to her face. There was something-

"Hey! I remember you wearing that."

Molly started and twisted to look through the open bathroom door.

John, obviously walking passed, had stopped and gestured toward the earring.

"When?" she asked.

A flicker in his eyes, and then he said, "It was our Christmas party this past year. You, erm, got all dolled up for the occasion. Wore those and this knock-out dress."

"I feel a bit sick when I look at them."

John shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, well. Sherlock he was a bit…" he trailed off.

"Of an ass?" Molly guessed.

"That could cover it. Mainly toward you, on that particular occasion."

Molly dropped the earring back into the bag, and John folded his hands behind his back.

"You didn't let him get away with it, though. That time." He said the last under his breath. "And he actually apologized. First and only time since I've known him."

She thought that that was supposed to make her feel better, but it really didn't.

**…**

When she looked at Sherlock now, Molly was revisited by that distinctly unpleasant sensation sweeping through her. At this particular moment, though, not looking at him was extremely difficult.

Sitting in his chair, an open book in his hands, Sherlock was clearly agitated. He would look over at Molly, away again, pulling a face, and then back to his book.

Molly was slumped on the sofa, back against the arm rest, knees pulled up in front of her. She didn't know what Sherlock's problem was (this time) and Molly wasn't sure that she _wanted _to know. But what she _did _know was that whatever was bothering Sherlock, it wouldn't take long for him to point it out.

The TV was off, and the ticking of the clock seemed especially loud against the background noise of Sherlock turning the pages of his book in an aggravated fashion. It was an old tome, and dust plumed from between its pages when Sherlock slammed it shut.

"Your socks. They're wrong."

Molly looked down at her feet. "What are they doing?"

"They don't match. Fix them."

One was blue and one was pink. There was another pair just the same in the drawer. She just gave Sherlock a blank look and picked a newspaper up from the pile under the coffee table. Mrs. Hudson had brought them up that very same day, suggesting that if Molly read through them, that one of the articles would spark some memories. Blocking Sherlock out with her paper, Molly pretended to read an article about a lost dog.

The leather in his chair creaked as Sherlock stood, but Molly paid him no mind. She certainly _did _mind when hardly a minute later, her left foot was in his grasp.

Sherlock tugged on Molly's foot, sliding her further down the leather sofa, and pulled the pink sock off. Molly lowered the newspaper just as he snatched the blue sock from her right foot. His hand was surprisingly warm against her skin, and Molly barely scowled when he shoved a matching pair of black socks –not a pair from her drawer- on both feet.

Appropriately socked feet fell back to the sofa, and Sherlock returned to his chair, a satisfied smile on his face, as if all was right with his world again.

Molly snatched the matching socks from her feet, which were entirely too large, balled them up, and threw them at Sherlock's head. Her aim was dead on.

Newspaper spread across her lap, Molly held Sherlock's glare as she pulled the pink sock, and then the blue, back onto her feet. She primly picked the paper up and buried herself behind it.


	5. Chapter 5

_**(Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Sherlock. **__**No copyright infringement intended, and I make no money from the writing or posting of this story. **_

_**Thanks to coloradoandcolorado1, magicstrikes, carrisa, ThisLooksLikeAJobForMe, lililoop, whytejigsaw, olivetrees, ally, Juze, shouryuujo, aye2skeye, patemalah21, naughtynyx, Meg-the-cat, Guest, Lono, Calicar, IvPayne, savagealias, Adi Who Is Alos Mou, Guest, Monica McWintorg, ChocoboMuffins, icansoar, Alsh, Nerdlee and rory'sfan04 for reviewing chapter four!**_

_**I'm having a bit of technical difficulty, so I may not be able to update this as quickly as I'd like. Hope you like chapter five, and I promise that in the upcoming installments, things will start happening outside of 221b.**_

_**As always, thanks to Petra Todd for her feedback.) **_

**...**

_**Finding Molly**_

_**Five**_

**...**

After two weeks, Molly thought that if she had to spend another second cooped up inside 221b Baker Street, she would snap. Sherlock would be solving his _own _bloody murder from the beyond, because she would have killed him.

And so, freshly showered, dressed and feeling human, with her bag slung over her shoulder, Molly decided that she was going to brave the grocery store. There was nothing in the fridge besides Sherlock's "experiments" and what she is mostly sure was a head of lettuce at one point. The cupboards were nearly completely bare, and Molly was discovering that when she was bored, she cooked. It seemed to be a great stress reviler, and it was between that and breaking Sherlock's violin over his overly-large head.

He didn't seem to be doing anything to discover what had happened to her; Molly was rightly worried about the time she couldn't remember. There was a period of nearly seventy-two hours from when she last left the hospital and came to unable to remember anything. What could have happened that was so terrible that he mind had wiped itself, had gone so far into itself that it left her with nearly nothing?

Sherlock was increasingly agitated. Only one case, besides her own, had been brought to him and it had been so simple that instead of easing his boredom, it had left him even worse. John was spending more and more time at the clinic; she wasn't sure if it was because they needed him or if he was just trying to get away from his flatmate.

Granted, Sherlock wasn't horrible to live with _all _the time. When he wasn't trying to be annoying, he really was an exquisite musician, and there were times that Molly found herself so wrapped up in the notes and pieces that seemed to effortlessly swell and pour from his instrument that she would close her eyes and lose herself in the music. Sometimes she could almost see the notes that fell from his fingertips; vivid colors against the backs of her eyelids, arias riding the air around the sitting room, escaping through doorways and window frames.

When he did eat, he seemed to enjoy the meals that she would scrape together to alleviate her own boredom. He could be funny, when he wanted to be and there were times when Molly could almost begin to understand how she'd become smitten with the detective. But then he would do something like tell her that her trousers made her arse look flat, or insult her intelligence, or attempt to experiment on her. When she'd woken in the middle of the night and caught him trying to collect a sample of her saliva, she'd responded instinctually by punching him in the face.

What had he expected her to do when she blearily saw a tall man looming over her?

Thankfully she hadn't done any real damage, and John had gotten a good laugh out of it, at least.

Molly stepped out of the back of the black cab in front of the Tesco that seemed impossibly enormous. It was her first time venturing out alone since she'd come to Sherlock and John for help, and she felt horribly vulnerable. She deposited her bag into the child-seat of her shopping trolly, and joined the throng of hungry shoppers.

She got the staples; bread, milk, condiments, beans, cheese, some lunchmeat, eggs. Then she pulled out the list that she'd compiled, taking recipes from Mrs. Hudson and others that seemed to be hardwired into her very being. Ingredients for another batch of lasagna, spaghetti bolognese, roast chicken, eggplant parmesan went into the basket. Baking supplies, things to make cakes, pies and tarts followed the rest of the groceries into her basket. Baking equaled stress relief, and if there was anything as stressful as living with a bored Sherlock Holmes, she'd like to see it.

Honestly, she and John should be given hazard pay.

By the time she'd bellied up to the check-out and paid for her purchases, Molly had begun to wonder if she'd gone a little overboard. And then she wondered how in the hell she was supposed to get all of this back to the flat.

It took a good five minutes to flag down a cab, about ten grocery bags hanging from each arm, and when Molly finally slumped her way through the door of 221 Baker St. she was vowing that next time she went, John or Sherlock or _someone _was coming with her.

"John? Sherlock?" she yelled from the bottom of the stairs, dropping half her bags.

"I'm in the middle of an experiment!" Sherlock's aggravated voice answered.

"Put it on hold! I need help down here!"

Once downstairs, Sherlock looked at her incredulously. "You want me to carry groceries?"

"Yes, Mr. Beautiful Mind." Molly handed him the bags that had still been in her hands, collected the ones from the floor and brushed past him up the stairs.

Two steps into the sitting room, Molly stopped in her tracks.

Her bras and knickers- the more scandalous kinds- were strewn all over the sitting room. A pair of hot pink and black knickers hung from a lamp shade, the matching bra hanging off the moose's head on the wall, one of the cups obscuring an eye. They were everywhere; hanging from teetering stacks of books, adorning the skull on the mantle, hooked on the edge of the mirror over the fireplace.

Molly could feel Sherlock's impatient presence at her back.

"Sherlock? What... Why... What is going on?"

"I told you I was in the middle of an experiment."

"With my lingerie?"

"I'm testing elasticity, distances and accuracy."

Molly closed her eyes, counted to ten, took a deep breath, and began to make her way to the kitchen.

"Just don't use the ones that I actually wear," she said to his back after he'd unceremoniously dropped the grocery backs on the kitchen floor.

"Of course not."

With barely a grimace, Molly moved and confined Sherlock's experiments to the crisper drawer of the fridge, knowing that she would most likely catch hell for it later. After some maneuvering, and a fair bit of balancing skill, Molly managed to find a place for all of the groceries she'd bought, as overboard as she'd gone.

"Success!" Sherlock shouted from the sitting room. Molly wandered in that direction, and found him leaning halfway out an open window, a cold breeze filling the room. She shivered, crossing her arms, and approached him.

"What was a success?"

With a wide grin, Sherlock leaned back from the window, and pointed.

There, on a high telephone wire about thirty feet away, hung one of her bras. It was a neon zebra striped affair, and when she looked back at Sherlock he was just pleased as punch.

"How did you manage that?" she asked, surprised at herself with just how amused she was.

"Simple mathematics!" Sherlock said excitedly.

It wasn't like she wore the bra, and Sherlock was being particularly pleasant, and so Molly decided to just go with it.

Both she and Sherlock looked back from where they were still admiring his triumph through the window when they heard John coming up the stairs.

"What in the hell is going on?" he asked, looking around the room.

"Experiment," Sherlock and Molly answered in synch.

"Oh dear Christ, no," John shook his head, eyes wide.

The two by the window merely glanced at each other again, before Sherlock went hunting for another bra.


	6. Chapter 6

_**(**__**Disclaimer**__**: **__**I **__**own **__**nothing **__**related **__**to **__**Sherlock**__**. **__**No **__**copy right **__**infringement **__**intended**__**.**_

_**Typing **__**this **__**up **__**text**__**-**__**style **__**for **__**you **__**all**__**. **__**Never **__**doubt **__**my **__**love**__**. **__**As **__**it **__**is **__**my **__**main **__**girl **__**lifelesslyndsey **__**is **__**uploading **__**it **__**for **__**me**__**. (**__**beta**__**'**__**d **__**by **__**her **__**too**__**. **__**she**__**'**__**s **__**kind **__**of **__**derpy **__**though**__**, **__**so go easy**__**.) **_

_**Giddy **__**as **__**a **__**drunk **__**school girl **__**over **__**the **__**response **__**to **__**this **__**story**__**, **__**keep **__**the **__**love **__**flowing**__**.) **_

_**Finding **__**Molly**_

_**Six**_

_**...**_

On a Monday morning, nearly three weeks after Molly had moved temporarily into 221b, she woke to Sherlock hanging photographs of dead bodies on the wall above her head. She was lying on the sofa in the sitting room, and Sherlock was balanced on the arm rest, a stapler in one hand, stack of photographs in the other. The steady _scheek_of the staple impacting the wall made Molly wince with every new photo.

She blinked blearily up at the images; a series of women, dead and bloody, stared down at her.

"New case, then?" Molly asked on the cusp of a yawn. She rolled away from the pictures, pulling the edge of her pillow out from under Sherlock's socked feet, nearly making him stumble off the sofa.

"Mmm," Sherlock answered, regaining his balance, and adding a photo of a young redhead to the collection. "Serial killer. Lestrade called this morning."

"That's lovely." Pulling her blanket to her chin, Molly paused, realizing what she'd said. "Well, you know, not for the victims, but, erm..." Molly sighed. "Never mind."

She fell back asleep with Sherlock standing on the coffee table, hands in the pockets of his dressing gown, staring at the photographs.

**...**

"What's wrong, Molly?"

The girl in question looked up at John from where she'd been face-down at the kitchen table.

She sighed before saying, "Bored." Molly let her hair fall around her face again. "I kind of understand Sherlock a little better now."

And she did. With absolutely nothing to do, Molly was slowly loosing what little was left of her mind. She had to admit that cooking and cleaning was not her... _thing__. _Not at all. She wanted to be _doing_something. Molly wanted to go and find out what had happened to her, as seemed Sherlock was to be preoccupied with everything but her case. She wanted to take the proactive approach.

Molly had no clue where to begin, though.

"Everything will come out alright," John said, patting her shoulder.

"You don't know that!" Sherlock yelled from the sitting room. "There are people who never get their memories back!"

Molly groaned against the table top.

"Yes, thank you for that, Sherlock," John muttered.

Another pat, and then he moved away. A few moments later she heard John descend the stairs, and then leave 221b.

Maybe she should search her flat for clues again? Once she knew what had happened, memories or no memories, she could get back to her life. Granted, without her memories she wouldn't be able to return to her previous profession, but certainly she could find some other type of work. She seemed to be a fairly adept cook, maybe she could get a job in a restaurant.

However, just at the moment it was a moot point. Molly had to discover why she'd lost her memories in the first place before she could even consider moving on.

"Stop moping."

Scooping her hair back, Molly looked up at Sherlock. He was glaring down at her, still in his pajamas, hair in disarray from where he'd run his fingers through it.

"What?"

"You're moping, and it's distracting me. Stop it."

"I am _not_moping, and you're one to talk. You're like a giant toddler when you're bored."

"I am not. My behavior is irrelevant right now, anyway."

"And just _why_is that?"

"Because when _I__'__m_bored, I'm not distracting you from solving multiple _homicides__."_

_Alright__, __fair __point__, _Molly thought.

Molly sighed, leaning back in her chair. "I'm sorry, I'll try to keep the moping down to a dull roar. And I wasn't moping."

Sherlock left the kitchen. Molly sat for a few moments, drumming her fingers on the table top before she got up and followed him.

Standing behind him, Molly shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans, rocking back on her heels, and stared at everything stapled to the wall behind the sofa. Photographs of the crime scenes, of the victims; coroner's reports, a map with tiny little push pins designating different locations.

"What are you trying to puzzle out?" she asked after a bit of silence.

"How badly you would be injured if I threw you out the window," Sherlock mumbled. "Granted, something I've done before, but the key to a good experiment is repetition."

Molly glared at his back. "You wouldn't."

"No, probably not."

"Can I help at all?"

"Yes, actually. You can."

"How?"

"By _shutting __up__."_

**...**

Molly took a taxi to Carthusian Street. She let herself into her unfamiliar flat, and paused half inside the doorway. She took in the somewhat cluttered sitting room and the spotless kitchen; Molly thought that if she were Sherlock, or was at least on par with his mind, she could find everything she needed to know from where she kept the tea in the kitchen, or possibly the state of the loo.

She wasn't Sherlock, but she thought that no harm could come from attempting a few deductions of her own. Closing and locking the door behind her, Molly hung her jacket on athe wall hook beside the door. Hands clasped behind her back, she wandered fully into the flat, trying to take everything in.

When she could deduce nothing from the arraignment of the pillows on the sofa, or the contents of the biscuit jar -slightly stale, home made chocolate chip- Molly moved into the bedroom. It was in the same state as it had been when she and Sherlock had come a few weeks ago; clothes strewn around the room, drawers hanging open, the closet door ajar.

This looked like the work of someone in a hurry to get somewhere, and was extremely worried over their appearance. Perhaps she had a date? She could have been attacked by said date, thus sustaining the blow to the head which caused the loss of memory. It seemed too simple, though; surely if it had been something like an angry lover, Sherlock would have picked up on it. The thought that she was so pathetic that the thought of her having a date hadn't even crossed his mind was something that Molly didn't even want to consider. Then Molly thought perhaps it hadn't occurred to him because he didn't even know to consider the possibility. From what she'd observer over the past weeks, Sherlock didn't seem the type that knew much about women or their possible relationships.

Although, surely he'd come across cases of jilted lovers before. In his line of work it was an unavoidable possibility. No, a date gone wrong wasn't likely. The stack of small bills they'd found in her purse went a long way to discount that theory.

Molly gathered a few articles of clothing off her bed and turned to sit down. Absently, she began to fold what she'd picked up, setting it aside in a tidy pile.

Small bills of that sort seemed like tips. Molly didn't think that she would have taken a part-time second job as a waitress or something like that. From what she'd been told, and from the evidence of her bank account, she had a rather professional career.

_So __where __did __the __money __come __from__? _Molly asked herself.

Molly shook her head and sighed. A headache was forming behind her eyes and she was getting nowhere. Pushing up from the bed, Molly gathered the clothes that were thrown about, folding them and putting them away. After the room showed some semblance of order, she went back to the bed, poking at things on the bedside table. An alarm clock, a small silver lamp with a teal shade that matched the bedspread. Sliding open the table's small drawer, Molly sifted through the things inside.

A few newspaper clippings, again featuring Sherlock and a leather-bound journal. A small feeling of disquiet rose in her chest- Sherlock had probably looked through that drawer. He probably looked through her journal as well, when he'd come here with Lestrade. A flush of embarrassment flooded her face. However, if Sherlock had seen these things, he didn't behave as if her former seemingly slavish devotion bothered him.

Molly closed the drawer, but didn't return the journal. Carrying it with her to the sitting room, Molly sat in one of the chairs, fiddling with the leather cover of the book, staring out the double windows at the city skyline.

After a while, she began to fidget in her seat; she wasn't comfortable here, and actually caught herself thinking longingly of the chaos-filled flat on Baker Street. Molly grabbed for the remote off the coffee table and turned the television on, settling back in the chair. Mostly she'd come here to look for clues, but she'd also come to give Sherlock some space to think. He'd seemed agitated around her, and the last thing she wanted to do was interfere with a murder investigation with just her presence alone.

The sun was beginning to go down, the sitting room was darkening and Molly was watching a program called _Doctor__Who__. _At first she'd discounted it as ridiculous, with the apple grass, the New New New New New -however many News- _New_York, the cat nurses and the trampoline looking thing that was apparently a human being. However, as that episode ended and another came on, Molly didn't change the channel. She still thought it was ridiculous, but it was a _good_type of ridiculous. She was partway through her third episode when there was a loud knock on the door.

Startled, Molly jumped, sending the remote flying across the room. Through the peephole, she could see Sherlock scowling at the door.

"I asked you a question, but you weren't there." he said when she opened the door.

"I'm surprised you noticed at all." Molly stepped back and let him in. "What was the question?"

"Could you make a pot of tea?"

"Not exactly important in the face of a murder investigation, is it?" She abandoned her spot on the chair for one on the sofa. "Why are you here?"

Sherlock shrugged, hanging his coat on top of hers. "I knew when you weren't home that you'd probably here and I still need tea."

"You couldn't make it yourself?" Molly asked, already getting up.

"I like your tea," he said absently. Sherlock sat in one of the chairs, glaring at the plump footstool in front of him. "This combination is wholly ridiculous. The comfort ratio between chair and footstool is completely off."

Molly didn't bother to answer as she searched the cabinets for tea.

"It's in the cabinet next to the fridge." At her look Sherlock clarified, "I searched your cabinets when I was here with Lestrade."

She was reminded of the drawer in her bedroom, and turned away from the sitting room to hide her embarrassed blush.

Always to be counted upon, Sherlock said, "No I did not read your journal. Though you may want to hide the box under your bed a bit more carefully in the future."

"What's in the box under the bed?" She asked, waiting for the kettle to boil.

"II do believe the correct term is a _vibrator_. It certainly answered a few questions about your inability to sustain a relationship. Most insecure men would feel threatened by the sheer size of it."

Molly dropped the container of tea, loose leaves spilling across the counter. She heard Sherlock chuckle and Molly let out an aggravated growl. Shoving the steaming cup of tea at Sherlock, Molly folded herself onto the couch and turned Doctor Who up loud enough to block out every single sound, Sherlock's breathing included.

TBC

A/N The episode of Doctor Who referenced is New Earth, S2EP1.


	7. Chapter 7

_**(Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended.**_

_**So sorry that it's been so long between updates! But as I have a passing moment with a functioning computer with internet access, I thought I'd get this uploaded. **_

_**You-all have been SO awesome with your reviews, I can't even get over it. Sorry I'm not thanking all of you individually, but thank you thank you thank you. **_

_**I feel weird about this chapter; let me know if it's not up to snuff, yeah? **_

_**And I promise that this will be the last fandom within a fandom reference.) **_

_**Finding Molly**_

_**Seven**_

The crackle of the flames in the fireplace was drowned out by the loud blaring of the television. Molly sat in Sherlock's chair, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them, eyes not wavering from the screen. DVD cases lay open and discarded at her feet, and she was ignoring the conversation that was taking place between the two men sitting on the sofa.

"You've got to make her stop, John," Sherlock groaned, head cradled in his hands, fingers threaded through his wild dark hair.

"At least she's not moping anymore."

"This obsession is unhealthy, annoying and interfering with my thought processes! It's got to stop. You've got to take them away."

"Yeah, no thanks. Last time I tried, she growled at me. At least she showered this morning."

"Only after I threatened to integrate her into the Homeless Network!"

John and Sherlock fell silent, and Molly could feel them watching her again. She couldn't spare time for their dalliances, though; she was nearly at the end of the forth season of _Doctor Who,_ and things were looking dire for her beloved Doctor. The next morning, after the horribly embarrassing interlude at her flat, she'd had John go on the computer and order the series one thru five of what was called "_New Who_" and she'd been watching since overnight delivery had brought them to the door.

Molly knew exactly what this was: avoidance. A distraction, clinging on to something when she'd been feeling adrift. Just because she knew what she was doing, though, didn't mean that she was going to stop.

She was tired of feeling lost.

Sick, and fed up, and just tired of it all. Molly wanted to be who she was, she wanted to remember her parents, she wanted to remember how to do her _job_. She wanted her _life_; the life she didn't even know.

All evidence provided, who she'd been had been a lonely woman fawning after a man she could never have, but at least she'd been _someone. _

"Oh dear _lord_. Now we have _tears_."

Molly ignored Sherlock. "I was_ wrong,_" she mumbled. "It's not ridiculous _at all_." A loud sob tore from her as her Doctor began to regenerate on the screen. _Stop being stupid, _Molly told herself. _It's a damn _show.

John pushed up from the sofa and left the sitting room for the kitchen as Sherlock continued to glare at the young woman sitting in _his _very comfortable chair.

A sound of relief echoed through the room as Molly finally turned the television off. The sound of relief morphed into another groan as she proceeded to rest her forehead against her knees and sob heartily.

"Oh will you _stop it!" _

Molly glared at him, tear stained and narrow-eyed. "You don't understand. It feels as though I've just... just lost my best friend or something!" she yelled back at him.

"How exactly would you know that? You don't _have any friends!" _Sherlock snapped.

Wiping her face with the too-long sleeves of her jumper, Molly rested her chin on her knees. "That is becoming evidenced, isn't it?" She hiccuped. "Why can't you just solve my bloody _case _so I can do us both a favor and _fuck off. _Out of your flat and out of your life!"

Molly knew that she wasn't really this upset over the stupid television show; everything she'd been bottling up, all of the frustration, the fear, fragility, vulnerability was pouring out, and it seemed she couldn't stop it.

Standing in front of the sofa now, Sherlock fixed her with a marrow-freezing glare before striding across the room, jerking his coat on and leaving, slamming the door behind him. Molly could hear him pound down the stairs, and the outer door slam with equal force.

His blue scarf swung on the back of the door.

**...**

"I think it would be better if I went back to my own flat."

John looked at her over the rim of his mug. "Why?"

"This is obviously leading nowhere. Either Sherlock thinks that my problem isn't worth the effort of solving, or he's already done it and hasn't seen fit to tell me." Molly brushed her hair behind her shoulders, a few tips wet from where it had fallen in her tea. She and John were sitting at the kitchen table, a half-hour after Sherlock had stormed out.

"Look, who in the hell knows what's going on with Sherlock, I know I certainly don't, but what I _do _know is that I've lived here with him for over a year and I've never seen him behave this way. I've seen him bored, I've seen him unstable. I've even seen him heartbroken. At least I t_hink _he was heartbroken; it was kind of hard to tell. But Sherlock _never _hesitates to sink his teeth voraciously into a case that he finds interesting, and he most certainly found your predicament interesting when you first arrived. Now? Who in the hell knows what's going on now."

Molly sighed and rested her chin on her fist. "I've been trying to figure this thing out on my own, but I'm getting nowhere." She picked a few long hairs out of her mug, inspected the milky liquid closely and then took a sip. "I just don't understand. Was I ever involved with anything... nefarious?"

John laughed, but immediately sobered up when he saw Molly's serious expression. "What, seriously? I thought you were joking." He cleared his throat. "Erm, not that I'm aware of. I mean, there was Jim a while back, but I wouldn't say you did anything _nefarious_."

"Jim?"

"Bloke you were dating. Turned out to be an insane criminal. The kind with a big criminal network, lots of thugs. Strapped a bomb to me, tried to kill Sherlock." He shrugged and gestured toward Molly with his mug. "You were pretty hung up on him, from what I remember. He'd posed as a Bart's employee to get information on Sherlock. You, um, you were his... unwitting informant."

"_Unwitting informant?_"

"Bad choice of words, but you still weren't responsible for anything you told him. Moriarty was rather convincing."

"Why wasn't I told any of this before?" Molly was incredulous. "He could have something to do with this!"

John swallowed a large gulp of tea, looking a little surprised at Molly's suddenly shrill voice. "Sherlock said he checked up on that angle. Somehow. Seems Moriarty isn't in the country at present."

"And he couldn't send one of this thugs to try and eliminate little Molly Hooper, _eyewitness_?" Molly was waving her arms around, voice so shrill dogs were likely barking blocks away. "Who knows what may have happened! I'm lucky to be alive right now!" Suddenly it was as if someone squeezed all of the hot air from her, and Molly dropped her head into her hands. "Dear God. I probably _snogged _him. I snogged the man who tried to kill you."

Pushing out of his chair, John rounded the table and awkwardly patted Molly's back. "There there."

…

Everything was different now. Molly jumped at shadows, panicked at loud noises and had once even hit the floor after a car had backfired on the street outside.

Now she knew what kind of things, and people, could very well be lurking out there in the world. Things, and people, that had possibly attacked her, tried to kill her, or worse. There were many fates worse than death, and Molly's overactive imagination provided them all.

Weeks past in this manner; she didn't leave 221b and preferred to remain within the reassuring touching distance of John, or if he weren't available, Sherlock. Things had been strained between her and Sherlock since their confrontation. They didn't speak to one another, not even to say, _''Molly, pass me that formaldehyde," _or _'Sod off Sherlock, get it yourself.'. _

Until the day he disappeared from 221b and returned hours later, a black box under his arm. John had gone to be, and so Molly was alone in the sitting room, reading about old cases on John's blog. Sherlock dropped the box onto the coffee table, and left for the kitchen.

"You seem tense lately," he said over his shoulder. "Thought you could do with that."

Molly was confused. She set John's laptop aside and pulled the box to her, flipping off the lid in one smooth motion.

"_Sherlock_!"

"I also picked up plenty of batteries, so really, go nuts."

Molly groaned, flopping back on the couch. "God how I hate you." But she knew then that she and Sherlock had returned to their familiar dynamic, what ever in the hell it may be.

"No you don't," he said smugly, voice carrying from the kitchen.


	8. Chapter 8

_**(Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended.**_

_**The drama amps up in the chapter, and with the introduction of the ultimate Queen. **_

_**Thanks to lifelesslyndsey for the Finding Molly brainstorm; thanks to the synch, I've finally gotten this story back on track. She's the Rodriguez to my Tarantino. No, wait, scratch that. She's Tarantino, because she's much cooler than I am. I'm good with being Robert Rodriguez. He's freaking adorable.**_

_**Thanks to Seriafina, MollyHooperRules, coloradoandcolorado1, Lono, Lucy36, aye2skeye, lililoop, magicstrikes, conchepcion, compositionc, DragonRose2, saourise, faeryenchanter, MorbidbyDefault, ImInLoveWithTheDoctor and Kayka for reviewing chapter seven!)**_

**...**

_**Finding Molly**_

_**Eight**_

**...**

Molly knew that she really should move back into her own flat. It was probably beyond time, but with the recent revelations about her dating history, she didn't feel safe. She told herself repeatedly to stop being a baby about the whole thing, but she couldn't make herself leave. Eventually Molly had to face the fact that the reason she didn't leave was because she didn't _want _to leave. Living there with John and Sherlock was all she knew, other than the cold beach and the hospital; they'd been her constant since coming to nearly two months ago. The lonely, unfamiliar flat that she'd scarcely visited seemed horribly _quiet_.Molly knew that if she went back, she would be miserable.

Loudly she clunked down the stairs and to the door of 221b. They were out of milk and Molly wanted coffee which was just, in her opinion, unbearable unless it was at least half milk. She pulled the door open and stuck her head out, looking around cautiously before stepping onto the pavement and locking the door behind her. Pulling her coat tighter, Molly hiked her bag onto her shoulder.

Early spring was giving way to late and things were beginning to thaw in spite of the bitter chill in the air. The plastic bag swung from the crook of Molly's arm as she left the market, intent on returning to the flat and her coffee that she hoped had survived her absence.

Before she knew what was happening, strong hands had grabbed her and shoved her into the back of the shining black car. The bag split and the carton of milk burst as it hit the pavement, and the car was gone before Molly had time to even think about screaming for help.

Sprawled across smooth leather, Molly looked up and into the face of a man she'd never seen before, sitting in an opposite seat. Or if she had, she couldn't remember him. Next to him was a younger woman with long dark hair, typing intently on some type of smart phone. Molly quickly pulled herself up and looked out the window, and saw that they were quickly speeding through downtown London.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Where these the mysterious Jim's henchmen? Sent to finish the job? They didn't look like much.

The man sighed, rolled his eyes. "I think it's long past time you dropped the act, Miss Hooper."

Molly pushed herself back against the seat. "What are you talking about."

"I'm not buying this story of, what was it?" He pulled a small notebook from his inner jacket pocket. "Ah, yes. _Retrograde amnesia. _Drop the act, you know who I am."

Heart racing in her chest, Molly tried to calm herself with a few deep breaths. "I don't know what you're talking about. It's not an act."

"I've heard of your ploys to get my brother's attention, but really this _is _desperate, even for you."

"Your _brother?_"

"I must say, your little scheme seems to be working. So I suppose my congratulations on that front. He does seem... intrigued by you."

Molly's hands clenched into fists against the seat. That horrible sensation, the same swooping one that she got when she found the earring and while John was telling her about the Christmas party, was rushing through her. She felt dizzy.

"I _don't _know what you're talking about. Who. Are. _You_?"

He sighed again.

Molly's head was throbbing. She felt like she was going to be sick. It would be a shame to ruin all that beautiful leather and the man's expensive suit.

"Let's just say that I'm both Sherlock's arch enemy, and at times his greatest ally and leave it at."

"But you just said that he was your brother."

"Yes, exactly."

Molly rested her aching head in her hands, leaning forward on her knees.

"I know all about your... extracurricular activities, Miss Hooper. I am _on to you_."

"Could you maybe let me in on it?" she asked, throbbing growing with each passing moment. "All of this is making my head pound. Let me out." Molly grabbed for the handle, fully expecting to find it locked. She was not disappointed. "_Let me out!_"

With a narrow look, the man reached behind him and rapped twice on the glass the separated the back from the front. The car slowed and then stopped. The moment the locks clicked, Molly jumped out of the car, slamming the door behind her.

Immediately she ran, trainers beating against the pavement, her lungs burning. Molly didn't stop until she was blocks away, ignoring the alarmed looks of passers-by. She leaned back against the nearest building, brick-face rough against her back through the barriers of her coat and jumper. Head spinning, Molly braced herself on her knees and tried not to vomit.

Looking around, Molly realized that she had no idea where she was. She slowly made her way to the street and hailed a cab.

Still shaking but enclosed in the comforting warmth of the cab, Molly tried to calm herself down. She leaned against the seat, and closed her eyes.

A flash of Sherlock, dressed in a black button up and trousers, his eyes cold and penetrating, crossed her mind.

It felt odd, almost like... a memory.

He was speaking, harsh words like poison, and there were bright, cheery lights in the background. _The Christmas party. _ He was analyzing her, like she'd heard so many times. Breaking her down_. _

"…_it's obvious Miss Hooper has loove on her mind." _

Her own mortified self, dressed embarrassingly to the nines.

"_... probably to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..." _

He picked up and the gift he'd been sure was for her _love _and she remembered, she _remembered_, that it was for him.

"Miss? _Miss!_"

Molly was snapped out of the memory by the cabbie. She looked out the window, and saw that they were idling in front of 221. Her stomach turned at the thought of going inside, but she had to. She had to know who that man was who had _kidnapped _her.

…

After paying the fare, Molly let herself into the building and slowly mounted the stairs. Sherlock met her at the door.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Met your brother," she told him as she pushed passed the obstacle of his body. Molly slumped in his chair by the fire. She couldn't look at him without that sick feeling returning. Her pounding headache was rapidly developing into a migraine.

"What did he say to you?"

"I don't really want to talk to you right now, Sherlock."

"_Bloody hell_," he snarled, stalking passed her to snatch his mobile off the mantle.

"Mycroft!" he barked. Molly could hear him pacing the length of the sitting room. John came down from his loft bedroom, pausing at the scene of a furious Sherlock. "What did you do? You've broken my Molly."

_His _Molly?

She could clearly hear the voice on the other end of the phone. "_I _have done nothing. If her story is true, I think you'll find you're the one who broke her, dear brother. _Your_ Molly, _this _Molly, never existed."


	9. Chapter 9

(**Disclaimer**: I own nothing related to Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Notes**: I've gotten a few reviews asking if this story has been abandoned. _Silly Midgardians. _

This story will not be abandoned or put on hiatus. I'm still without internet, and as such I'm relying on lifelesslyndsey, to post chapters for me. It's slow getting them to her, and she's a busy lady, so updates are slow in coming. I apologize, but just at the moment it's all that I can do.

The response to Finding Molly has been great, and it won't be ending anytime soon, so you guys just keep up your end of the bargain by being awesome, and I'll do what I can on my side.

Thanks to: magicstrikes, **Ssmill**, **compostionc**, **MadAsAHatterjayy**, **lililoop**, **CretianStar**, **Zoe Bright**, **Lono**, **LizzieBeth**, **faeryenchanter**, **The Peeplae**, **FangFan**, **coloraoandcolorado1**, **Juze**, **Petra Todd**, **MuteBanana**, **jamesJL**, **Lucy36**, **Guest**, **173'dliketobe167**, **TheOodhugger**, **MollyHooperRules** and **Evon** for reviewing chapter eight!

This chapter feels a little rough to me, but I hope you-all like it anyway. If there are any _glaring _errors, please feel free to point them out in a PM.)

…**.**

Finding Molly

Nine

…**.**

Inside 221b Baker St., the atmosphere was curled tight as a fist. John was avoiding his home as much as he possibly could, wanting to maintain relationships with both of his friends by not coming directly involved in whatever the hell was going on.

Molly was packing.

Sherlock was trying to figure out _why _Molly was packing, without directly asking her. Trying, and _failing_. Miserably.

As much as Molly hated the idea of not living in the flat she'd come to think of as home, she didn't see any possible way to bring herself to stay. How could she possibly be around Sherlock now? The hurt she felt over that one, lone memory was _nothing _compared to the mortification that went hand in hand with it.

She winced as Sherlock scrawled a particularly loud, off key wail with his bow across the strings of his violin.

Molly was moving back into her own flat, she was going to buy an industrial sized can of defense spray, find a job and move on with her life. It was passed time.

…**.**

Juggling her duffle bag and Toby's travel carrier, Molly unlocked the door to her flat on Carthusian Street. She dropped her back just inside the door, let Toby out and hung her keys on a small hook next to the coat hook.

The silence was oppressive. A dripping faucet and the whir of the refrigerator running only seemed to amplify the fact that it was _empty_.

Just like she was.

…**.**

Memories came with bouts of nausea. Not many, three in total, but they affected Molly like a sickness.

In the first, she was standing by a double grave-sites. Rain spattered down, fat drops rolling off the shining black lids that were heaped with white lilies. She was standing apart from the small group in a black dress and uncomfortable heels, clutching an umbrella.

The second was of Sherlock, naturally. He was breaking her down, telling her that her boyfriend was gay. _Jim_. The one John had told her about, the madman. The fact that the horrible feeling she recalled was still tinged with infatuation toward Sherlock amazed her.

And the third was actually a happy memory. It took place in her flat, surprisingly in the company of Jim Moriarty. They were sitting on her sofa, eating popcorn and watching _Glee_. She remember feeling content, and happy.

Molly locked her door and windows, drew the shades and didn't leave her flat. She discovered that a grocery across the city delivered groceries for an astronomical price, and Molly couldn't find a reason that would require her to leave in the near future. Who needed sunlight? She could add vitamin D supplements to her grocery list.

This went on for a week, until one late Friday night there was a knock at her door. She peeked through the peephole to see John on the other side of the door, posture ram-rod straight as per usual. Sparing a quick glance down at her raggedy sweat pants, mismatched socks and holey shirt, Molly shrugged thinking he'd seen her in worse and swung the door open. He crossed the threshold without waiting for an invitation and Molly locked and dead-bolted the door behind him.

"What in the hell are you doing?"

"Nice to see you too, John. Tea?"

"Please, Earl Grey if you have it."

After they were seated at her small table with their tea, he repeated his earlier question.

"I'm moving on," Molly told him, averting her eyes to the mug in front of her.

"This doesn't look like moving on to me."

Molly and John were quiet for a few minutes, sipping at their tea. Until Molly said, "I've had a few memories."

She heard John suck in a breath, and then, "Why didn't you say anything?"

Molly shrugged. "It's not as if they really pertained to anything. Just... a few of Sherlock being, well, being Sherlock I suppose. Another of what I'm pretty sure was my parent's funeral."

"What memories of Sherlock?"

"You were there both times. The first, and this happened the day I met Mycroft, was of that Christmas party you told me about."

John groaned.

"And another was at the hospital, the one I use to work at, I'm assuming. Sherlock was telling me in his diplomatic way that my boyfriend was gay."

"Listen. I know more than anyone what a prick Sherlock can be, trust me. But I also know that he's not completely unfeeling, or uncaring, no matter how much he'll deny it and behave otherwise."

"D'you think I overreacted?" Molly asked, fiddling with the handle of her mug.

"No, I don't. But I do think that instead of focusing on these _old _memories of Sherlock, no matter how much they make you want to kill him, you should think about the new ones you've made while you were staying with us." John cleared his throat, almost uncomfortably. "Like the experiments, you know the weird one with the bras and that one with the eyeballs. That time he taught himself to play that one song you asked him about. And I know for a fact that he made you tea when you had a sore throat."

Molly's laugh was sad, heavy. "Everything just feels so hopeless, John."

"Hey, I know what hopeless is. I've been there. You? You're far from hopeless."

…**.**

The next afternoon Molly sank down on her sofa, kicking off her shoes and pulling her hair out of the high ponytail she'd had it in. She'd followed the advice John had given her before leaving the night before. To go out, look for a job. Find s_omething _to keep herself occupied.

A bakery had been followed by a few shops and restaurants, Molly awkwardly filling out application sheets and speaking with owners. How could she explain her situation? In most cases, she didn't. Only saying that she hadn't been employed in quite sometime in order to explain the gaping holes in her information.

Much to her surprise, she'd spent most of the day thinking about Mycroft Holmes.

The man obviously wielded some power; it oozed from his very _being_. And he'd been quite smug about the fact that he held some sort of information. If she'd been able to keep her head during their first and only encounter, she may have gotten some answers.

What Molly needed to do was get ahold of Mycroft. And there was only one person she knew that was a shared acquaintance who may know his contact information.

His brother.

…**.**

Sherlock had been surprisingly compliant when she'd asked him for Mycroft's information. After what had to have been one of the most awkward conversations in the history of the telephone, Molly was letting Mycroft Holmes into her flat.

He was sans-assistant this time, and looking at his surroundings with distain. Molly's hackles rose and she decided to skip pleasantries and just get down to it.

"What do you know? About what happened to me, I mean."

Mycroft seemed amused by her demand, but none the less lowered himself into one of her chairs. He crossed one leg over the other, settling in.

"I'm assuming you mean what led you to be in your current state."

Molly nodded.

"I haven't the foggiest."

"But-but you said you knew! You said that you knew about my _extracurricular activities._"

"It was a bluff. I was attempting to get information from _you_."

Like a marionette with snipped strings, Molly slumped down onto her sofa. She thought that she would finally get some answers. She thought, she _didn't_- "I don't understand."

"I worry about my brother, Miss Hooper. Constantly. And as such I make a habit of keeping an eye on things. The people in his life, most especially. You were, at most, a level-three. As such, I have no information concerning what happened that night."

"What are you talking about? Level three?" Molly pulled herself against the arm of the sofa, facing Mycroft with her knees drawn up.

"Surveillance. Level three surveillance."

Molly was certain that she did not want to know what that meant.

"Do you know _anything_?" She'd been hanging her hope on this conversation.

"I have basic background information, naturally. Your history with my little brother-"

"_And_?"

Mycroft sighed, shifted in the chair and pulled a small notepad from an inner jacket pocket. Paper rustled as he flipped a few sheets before stopping, raising his brows as he read.

"Marcaline _Molly _Hooper, born May 23, 1979. Grew up in south London with her mother and father, both of whom died in a car accident in '01. Bad tires. Attended uni at Kings College, with Sherlock, I might add-"

"Wait, wait, wait." Molly held her hands up in front of her. "Sherlock and I went to uni together?"

"Briefly. He dropped out two semesters after you began."

"Is-is that where I met him?"

"Ah." Mycroft flipped his notepad closed and slipped it back into his jacket. "Yes, you two met there. I'm unsure on the exact circumstances."

Molly waited expectantly, but Mycroft didn't elaborate. She made a go-on gesture, and was surprised when he looked almost reluctant.

"While at university Sherlock picked up a few... unsavory habits. Drugs. Heroin, more specifically."

"Oh."

"Yes. You and he were aquainted by that time, and you were, for lack of a better word, infatuated with my brother. A few months after he dropped out, Sherlock was in a... dangerous place. You were instrumental in his recovery. Stayed with him through the withdrawls, and relapses. Sherlock responded to you, when no one else could get through to him."

At a complete loss for words, Molly sat quietly.

"History explains a lot of Sherlock's current behavior. Who gets the harshest side of his tongue?" He gestured to himself with a small smile. "As far as you are concerned, Miss Hooper, if I had to guess Sherlock seems nearly _offended _that even though you've seen him at his lowest, your... feelings for him remain."

Lower lip caught between her teeth, Molly attempted to process the new information. She thought about the shift in Sherlock's bahavior toward her; from her few scant memories, to when she'd stayed with him and John.

She was more confused than ever. Discovering her history with Sherlock left her with more questions then answers, and as Mycroft rose to leave, Molly was determined to confront the questions head on.


	10. Chapter 10

**(Disclaimer: **I own nothing related to Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay, and thanks for the... ah... persistence of a few anons encouraging me to get this chapter out.

I need to say something quickly: Sherlock is a bit OOC in this chapter. However, in my opinion, Sherlock in any type of romantic situation, beyond flirting and witty banter, is going to be OOC. Because honestly, I think when it comes to anything _heavy _to do with those bothersome feelings that he _does _have, but has been taught that he should not, Sherlock would be running and screaming in the opposite direction.

Also, as is obvious, I've altered the history between Molly and Sherlock, even though there really is no canon as to when they met, ect., it's normally just accepted that they met at Bart's. Well, that didn't work for me, so I changed it.

**Thanks to: **magicstrikes, faeryenchanter, MorbidbyDefault, savagealias, MadAsAHatterJayy, lililoop, Lucy36, Faye Kinitt, Guest, aye2skeye, Lono, whytejigsaw, nmmi-nut, DragonRose4, Evon, FangFan, coloradoandcolorado1, naughtynyx, Atlantianis, ThisLooksLikeAJobForMe, Guest, Guest, Guest Getting Over Greta and Northern Nightingale **for reviewing!)**

…**.**

_**Finding Molly**_

_**Ten**_

…**.**

Sleep stubbornly evaded Molly; she tossed and turned in the unfamiliar bed, sweating under thick blankets. The memory that had crashed into her when she'd attempted to turn in after Mycroft had left haunted her. It played on a loop whenever she closed her eyes.

It had been of her and Sherlock, and she'd been practically dragging his tall frame from a crumbling row-house in a terrible neighborhood. Molly could feel the weight of him against her side as she supported his rail-thin body, and she could see the blown-black of his eyes when he looked blankly at her. Barely a spark of recognition.

She could _remember _the feeling then. The sick twisting deep inside, trying to help him. A man she'd known for such a short time at that point, but had been seared onto her heart.

…**.**

Shortly after sunrise, Molly gave up on the hope of sleep and pulled herself out of bed and into the shower.

It was still obscenely early when she left her flat, but she knew that Sherlock would already be up, assuming he'd gone to sleep at all that night. She walked from Carthusian to Baker Street, early morning air brisk and a headache creeping in from the edges; a side effect of the sleepless night.

Molly used the key that was still on her ring to get into 221, not bothering to ring the bell. The carpeted stairs creaked under her feet as she climbed, and she found Sherlock sitting in his chair by the fireplace. His eyes were closed and she would have thought him asleep if he weren't idly plucking the strings of the violin that rested against his chest.

The fireplace grate was empty, and the room was cold.

Hanging her bag and jacket on the back of the door with Sherlock's coat and scarf, Molly took the seat across from him.

"You're back," Sherlock said, eyes still closed, hands now still.

"I just- I need to-" Molly stopped, cleared her throat. "I spoke to your brother again last night, and I need you to... clarify a few things he told me about our... history."

His fingers clenched around the wooden instrument, but otherwise Sherlock didn't move.

"Tell me." Her voice was soft. Gentle.

"Will you make a pot of tea?"

"I will not. But I wouldn't say no to a cup of coffee."

She could have sworn that he nearly grinned before hauling himself out of the chair in a sudden flurry of motion.

Porcelain clanked against metal in the kitchen, and Molly could hear John snoring upstairs in his loft bedroom. Otherwise, everything was quiet. Sherlock thrust a steaming mug of sweet, milky coffee under her nose before reclaiming his seat.

The drink warmed her up and she wrapped her hands around the cup, letting the heat seep in. Molly cleared her throat before saying, "I need you to tell me, Sherlock."

"Molly, I... _can't_." The vulnerability in his voice was alarming, but Molly could not back down from this.

"I _need _you to. I need this. Please, Sherlock."

…**.**

Molly wasn't quite sure how they'd gotten to be in their current position. She remembered moving from John's chair to the sofa while he'd been telling her exactly how they'd first met. It had been in Bart's hospital, she'd been observing an autopsy, he'd been stealing a spleen.

She'd sunk into the leather, tucking her feet up underneath her legs, and he'd joined her on the sofa after telling her about the first time she'd spoken to him, at one of the few parties he'd attended, only a few weeks after they'd met.

Sherlock told her that by the time they'd become _friends _(and the term was used loosely), he'd already been experimenting with cocaine. He explained that he'd grown quickly bored with it and hated the burn that came with snorting the white powder. And then his provider had offered up something _else_.

Never stopping the narrative flow of his deep baritone he stretched out across the cushions, head resting on her folded legs. And this was the bit Molly was having trouble with; because this felt _comfortable. _To her, this felt right. Sitting with Sherlock's head in her lap, and at some point, she'd begun running her fingers through his dark curls; short, rounded fingernails scratching lightly along his scalp.

"-and that first time. That _first time_, Molly. Oh, it was glorious. The _feeling... _it's indescribable. But no matter how much I did after that, I never got the feeling of that first time again. I chased it, and grabbed after it, thinking maybe _this time_, it would be the same. That everything here," he touched his temple with pale fingers, "would go quiet, and I could just _be_."

The longing in his voice frightened her.

Sherlock shakes his head sharply against her thigh, clears his throat. "I hit... bottom so many times, and every time, you'd be there. I don't remember much of that part, but you'd track me down to the most horrible places, dangerous places, where you could have easily been... and you'd drag me out, _clean _me out. Time after time."

His eyes were closed now, and her fingers were twisting nervously in his hair.

"Until that last time, when you- you told me that you couldn't do it anymore. You said that you couldn't watch me... kill myself. When I got clean, and stayed clean, you stuck around. For reasons I still don't really understand." This last bit sounded like it was wrung forcibly from him, admitting that he didn't understand something, but he really was telling her _everything_.

"I shut everything out after that. Even you. Most especially you. I was deliberately cruel, and I suppose that I'm... sorry." He opened his eyes, and canted his head to look up at her then, eyes wide. An impossible mix of ice blue and sea green. And Molly didn't let herself think about.

Just leaned down, and kissed him. His lips were full, and soft, and smooth. Warm. And Molly's heart fluttered and then pounded in her chest.

Sherlock was completely still under her, and Molly pulled away after only a few moments at the sound of a creak on the stairs. She looked up in time to see John disappearing back upstairs to his bedroom.

Molly straightened, pulling her hands from Sherlock's hair, neither of them looking at the other.

"Uh..." Molly curled her bottom lip between her teeth. "Sorry about that."

"No, it's-"

"It's just, you know, we were having a moment, and I just kind of went for it."

"It's fine. Really, it's fine." He swung his legs around, and sat up, and Molly did the same. Her fingers twisted in her lap, and she could practically taste the awkwardness hanging between them.

Molly cleared her throat. "More coffee?"

"Yes, yes. Black, two sugars."

She shot off the couch and left for the kitchen without looking at him.


	11. Chapter 11

(**Disclaimer**: I own nothing related to Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note**: So, I know it's been a while. I was busting my butt doing NaNoWriMo, but I've slacked off on it because let's face it. No way am I finishing my book in a month, and I'm alright with that. I really hope that you guys like the direction I'm taking this thing, and I promise that updates will be coming quicker now that I have internet again. I can't promise more than weekly chapters, but I'll try. Sorry this one is a bit short, and unbeta'd, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Thanks to: **magicstrikes**, **Rocking the Redhead**, **lililoop**, **coloradoandcolorado1**, **FangFan**, **House Calls**, **Monica McWintorg**, **SpencerReidFan89**, **faeryenchanter**, **Beth-TauriChick**, **Guest**, **KrisAnthemum221**, **Lucy36**, **friend2friend1**, **Lono**, **Evon**, **whytejigsaw**, **naughtynyx**, **MisplacedHQuill,** **DoctorWhoFangirl11**, **MorbidbyDafault**, **broomclosetkink**, **aye2skeye**, **Guest**, **Juze**, **SammyKatz**, **KendraPendragon**, **Nocturnias**, **PurpleYin**, **Guest**, **Guest**, **Guest** and **LaserGirl77** for reviewing chapter ten!

**Finding Molly**

**Chapter Eleven**

…**.**

Molly, John and Sherlock were sitting around the normally cluttered table in the sitting room of 221b. It was night, and John had convinced Molly to come back for supper after her early morning visit. She could still feel Sherlock's full, soft lips against her own as she picked at the plate of food that John had prepared for them. Molly wasn't entirely sure what _exactly _it was they were supposed to be eating. It resembled a sort of pie, but again, she wasn't entirely positive of that.

Sherlock wasn't even pretending to eat. He was sitting directly across from her, flicking at the tines of his fork with the fingers on his left hand, staring at Molly's mouth.

Fidgeting in her seat, Molly could barely stand it. She could _feel _his gaze burning into her, and she really wished that he would cut it the hell out.

In an attempt to ignore the tension in the room, John cleared his throat and said, "So, any luck with the job hunt?"

Molly opened her mouth to answer, but Sherlock beat her to it. "She hasn't heard back from the bakery, nor the cafe she applied to, and those were the two she was most counting on."

She glared across the table at Sherlock, who just gave her a look that clearly said '_what?_'. "I can speak for myself, thanks. But yes, what he said."

With a brief nod, John went back to his meal, setting a steady fork-to-mouth rhythm. He finished with record speed and then Sherlock and Molly were alone for the first time since that morning. When she'd kissed him.

Sherlock was still staring at her, and Molly couldn't take it anymore. "Oh my God, will you cut it out?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock abruptly stood and carried his untouched plate of food into the kitchen. Molly winced as he dumped the plate, food and all into the dishwater in the sink as she took a few extra seconds to scrape her leftovers into the bin.

"You know very well what I meant. You were staring at me."

"I wasn't looking at you, I was looking at your mouth."

Molly groaned, frustration filling every inch of her body.

"Oh, I see then. Very different. May I ask why?"

"You may not."

"For pities sakes, Sherlock." Molly added her plate to the stack in the sink. She washed her hands quickly and leaned back against the counter next to the sink, drying them on a towel. "And don't try to hide behind your microscope."

Hiding her grin as she watched Sherlock freeze, knowing that was exactly what he was trying to do. Instead he lowered himself onto the stool, away from the table and facing her. Sherlock folded his arms across his chest, a defensive gesture if Molly ever saw one.

"You were staring at my mouth because I kissed you, and you don't know how to feel about it."

"That's completely absurd, I-"

"Please don't feed me that drivel. I may not remember what you were like before, but I lived here long enough to call bullshit."

There was a long moment of silence, neither of them looking at the other, until Molly cleared her throat before saying, "Any progress in finding out what happened to me? I tried to get information out of your brother but he's proved about useless."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched in what Molly thought was almost a smile. "Unfortunately, no. As far as I can tell, there was no foul play involved as there were no other injuries outside the blow to your head that caused your memory loss."

Molly rummaged around in the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, and then one for Sherlock who took it with an absent nod of thanks.

"Then I moved on to the stack of money we found in your bag, which led me to believe that you'd taken a second job in the service industry, which made absolutely no sense. That's something that I should have picked up on long before your... incident."

Sherlock paused to take a drink, and Molly couldn't help but watch the way the muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed.

Twirling the lid back onto the bottle, Sherlock continued. "I thought perhaps a hobby, something that would account for the copious amounts of glitter and... scent that were clinging to your body upon your arrival here. I investigated several... _gentleman's clubs_ but no one recognized you." At Molly's blank look, Sherlock elaborated. "Strip clubs, Molly."

"_Oh_." A giggle burst out of her at the thought of Sherlock sneering in the middle of a strip club, refusing to touch anything. "I can't, oh I just can't picture you in a place like that.

Sherlock chuckled deep and low, hands sliding down his black clad thighs. "It was an experience I'll be deleting soon. Though I'm not sure I'll be able to forget the owner of one establishment offering me a job."

Molly dissolved into laughter, clutching her stomach, leaning heavily against the counter. As much as the thought of Sherlock with his clothes off made desire plume in her middle, the image of Sherlock twirling around a pole wearing the equivalent of a speedo had her laughing hard enough that she was afraid she was going to wee on herself.

When she opened her eyes, the laughter died. Sherlock had moved across the room and was standing directly in front of her. Molly leaned back slightly as he braced both hands on either side of her, breath catching in her throat. Sherlock dipped his head and took her mouth, this time in full control of the kiss.

This was right, Molly couldn't help but thinking. Her hands went to his narrow shoulders and Sherlock deepened the kiss, and there was a warmth building in Molly's chest. His mouth tasted of minty mouthwash and cigarette smoke, and she was going to give him hell later for sneaking a smoke, but right now she was too distracted by the way his fingers brushed up her neck and tangled in her hair.

Sherlock pulled back just enough to breathe, and Molly said, "Thank you."

"For what?" Lips brushed together as they spoke.

"I didn't think that you were actually trying to find out what happened to me. So, thank you."

"Mm." He kissed her again, and once more before taking a single, small step back. Sherlock's fingers were still in her hair, and he pressed his lips to her forehead.

Molly toyed with a button on his shirt, and bit her lip reluctantly. "I should go home. I'm going out tomorrow to continue the job hunt."

After a moment, Sherlock said, "Just a suggestion, but go to Angelo's. He owes me a favor, and it'll at least get you in the door."

Smiling a little, Molly undid the button and slid it back into place quickly. "I will."

"Good, now get your coat. I'll hail a cab."

When Molly unlocked the door to her flat and let herself in, she saw that there was a blinking number one on her answering machine. She rushed to it immediately, hoping that it was the bakery, and pressed play on the machine.

"_Yes, Ms Hooper? This is Helen from Doctor Benson's office. I'm calling because unfortunately, due to several missed appointments, six in fact, we're going to have to drop you as a patient. If you have any __questions, please give our office a call. Thank you." _


	12. Chapter 12

**(Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended. **

**Author's Note: This chapter is shorter than I'd intended it to be, but it eases us of the mild cliffhanger of the last chapter.)**

**Finding Molly**

**Chapter Twelve**

**...**

Early the next morning Molly was sitting at her small table with a notepad and pen in front of her, listening to the phone buzz through to Doctor Benson's office. The message on her machine left her baffled, and after she'd listened to it twice more she basically tore apart her flat trying to find anything that would clue her in as to who this doctor was. She went through the small desk in her bedroom, through the bedside table with the journal that she still hadn't read; anywhere papers or anything of the like were kept and came up with nothing. Molly scanned the front of the fridge for appointment reminders, and there was nothing; _six _appointments in a row? What sort of a doctor would arrange that many appointments ahead of time? There had to have been a frequent, standing appointment schedule- nearly weekly, in fact. She hadn't been able to sleep after, mind whirring with possibilities; did she have some sort of disease? Molly felt healthy enough physically, but she supposed that didn't necessarily mean much.

Finally a cheery voice picked up on the other end, and greeted Molly with a, "Doctor Benson's office, how may I help you?"

"Is this Helen?" Molly asked.

"Yes it is, who may I ask is calling?"

"My name is Molly Hooper, and I received a message from your office yesterday informing me-"

"That you'd missed several appointments with the doctor, yes," Helen cut across her. Molly could hear the click-and-clatter of computer keys on the other end. "Six standing appointments, in fact. We had no choice but to drop you."

"Understandable, however..."

…

By the time Molly hung up, she'd scheduled an appointment for that afternoon with Doctor Benson- who was, as she'd discovered, a psychiatrist. The fact that she'd had standing weekly appointments with a psychiatrist was alarming to say the least. Could that have something to do with her current problems? What exactly had she been seeing this doctor for? Molly could only hope that the incident was unrelated to the pending mental health issues.

From all accounts Molly had discovered that she wasn't exactly been a happy person, so it made sense that she would see professional help to guide her through what was most likely a severe depression.

Still, no matter what she found out later that day, it would be another piece to the puzzle that was her damaged mind. It was clear that she'd received a blow to the head that night that she'd lost her memories, but the blow could have merely triggered something deep-lying in her mind causing the memory loss.

Molly shook her head and pushed back from the table to get a glass of water and a few pain relievers from the kitchen- all of this thinking was giving her a headache.

Molly dressed for the day and straightened up the mess of papers she'd made the night before and carried her journal back into the sitting room with her, laying it on the table as she picked up the phone to call Sherlock and John's place.

She wanted Sherlock to go to the appointment with her. Molly figured that his skills may come in handy in any fact gathering that would go on, and she really just wanted the support.

The turn in her relationship with Sherlock had been building for a while; shortly after she'd moved and had adjusted to live in 221b, actually. They'd clashed often, and if she was correct Sherlock was mildly... fascinated by her change in personality. Molly most certainly didn't _feel _like the shy girl that had been described to her. Most of the time, she found that she couldn't keep her mouth shut. As if a wall had been knocked down inside her mind at the same time another had been thrown up in front of her memories.

So she wasn't surprised that she'd kissed him yesterday, and she wasn't _really _surprised that he'd kissed her. Molly wasn't sure exactly what their relationship had turned to, but she'd decided in the course of her sleepless night that she wasn't going to beat the subject to death; she had enough to worry about.

…

At two o'clock that afternoon Molly stepped out of a cab and onto the pavement in front of the building where Doctor Benson's office was. John was already there, waiting with his hands behind his back outside of the black glass doors; Sherlock hadn't been home when she'd called, off doing who knew what. John certainly hadn't known. But he'd said that he would be more than willing to come with her, to scope the place out, to get to the bottom of this next clue.

John pulled open the door and let Molly pass first, and then they hunted down the right office. The waiting room of the was bland, a professional, impersonal set up. A middle aged woman sat inside a small, partitioned office that opened into the main waiting room by a sliding window. Molly assumed that this was Helen, the woman that she'd been speaking with earlier in the day.

Clutching her bag close to her body, with John following behind, Molly approached the receptionist. Before she could get word one out, Helen had pushed the window open and was squinting up at Molly through thick lensed glasses.

"Miss Hooper?"

"Yes, um-"

"Doctor Benson will see you right away. Through this door, and then it's the one on the left." The window slid shut again, and Molly's eyebrows climbed her forehead as she fought the urge to pound on the glass and say something nasty. Which came as a surprise, because as far as she knew, she was not one that was prone to violence.

She started a little when John finally took her elbow and steered her to the door that was on their right. The office was relatively small, and so there was only one door on the left to choose from. It was ajar and Molly only paused to rap on the frame lightly before stepping into the again professionally decorated office.

Doctor Benson himself sat behind an ornate desk, small and slim, blonde hair cut short and styled with wire rimmed glasses perched on his face. Molly supposed that he was quite handsome from a disconnected point of view, but her first thought was of a boneless weasel.

John quietly shut the door behind him as Benson rose from his seat, hand extended across the desk.

"Doctor Hooper, lovely to see you again." His smile was a little too wide, he held her hand for just a moment too long.

"Well, I wish I could say that I remembered you, Doctor Benson, but I'm afraid that I don't." There were two chairs in front of the desk and Molly took the one on the right while John claimed the other.

"You really have yourself in a predicament, don't you?"

**...**

**(End Author's Note: This ends rather abruptly, I know. I meant to do that, honestly. The next won't be too long in the coming, and we get some possible answers.)**


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